I call it the landscape of the sky.

With my fading eyesight, the landscape around me is confused by haze, but the sky is brightly lit and clouds do not require precise vision.

The sky is best viewed while lying supine, a position kind to my tired bones. If I drift off, the landscape may have changed without me. Some clouds have dissolved altogether, reclaimed by the empty sky, while other small clouds may have been claimed by a larger one.

I must be imagining it but it seems to me the cloudscape is the boundary land between earth and outer space, or maybe even a border between living and dying.

Sometimes those high, thin, wispy clouds are the leading edge of an approaching storm. And when the clouds sink toward the earth heavy with moisture, I am glad.

When the storm has passed, the north wind drives the white-sailed galleons along the horizon, their cargo spent.